


Iktsuarpok

by NebulaDreams



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Diary/Journal, Discovery, Gen, Mystery, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:34:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NebulaDreams/pseuds/NebulaDreams
Summary: 'I came here with no destination and no map for guidance; all that's left is the broken compass in my mind pointing towards nowhere.'





	Iktsuarpok

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: Hi! Here's a surprise story I wrote in a surprisingly small timeframe. I initially wrote the entirety of the first draft in just a few hours, and from there, I expanded the story so that the improvised parts felt more cohesive. I partially wrote this since I wanted to rebound from the disastrous process of a scrapped one-shot, but I've also had this idea for a Nosepass-themed fic for a while. Someone else also gave me the push to write it because of their interest in good noseboys, so special thanks to Bluwiikoon for beta-reading this story.  
>    
> Content warning: Suicidal ideation, swearing, references to alcohol.

_Ikt-suar-pok_  
  
_(Inuit): The feeling of anticipation while waiting for someone to arrive, often leading to intermittently going outside to check for them._

I came here with no destination and no map for guidance; all that's left is the broken compass in my mind pointing towards nowhere.

Where I came from isn’t important. I just left home and let the metal dinghy steer itself wherever it pleased. It ended up going north for most of the journey. But now I’m here on this island, with the endless sea sloshing against the rocks on the shore and the green-infested mountains looming in the distance, I shall let my mind wander wherever it pleases before... well, only I know that. But my hands will write what I see in shorthand, acting as my second pair of eyes.

Before I continue my journey, I sift through the rest of my belongings on the deck of the boat: a hip flask, a pack of sausages, a portable tent, a set of matches, a candle, and a hunting knife. I hope I don’t need to use it.

A curious object hovers before me. It’s like a floating rock, except it has a big nose and a brow ridge carved into the surface, forming an imitation of a face. It belongs to a Probopass, if my memory doesn’t fail me.

I tighten my grip on the knife’s handle. I doubt a floating rock can do much, but one can never be too careful. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem interested in harming me. What happens instead is that the flask in my hand starts gravitating towards it, along with my blade. I instinctively pull both of them back. That bugger isn’t gonna take my whiskey! Before it can do anything else, though, the object scurries away, ceasing the pull on my possessions.

I must be careful going forward. I almost consider turning back and leaving this island, but there’s no point wasting a journey if I’m already committing to it. I’ll follow my nose towards that, er, nose. My only hope is that I’ll get to finish this Sunflory before that thing does it for me.

I pointedly do not secure the boat to the rock.

***

I’ve walked for an hour and haven’t discovered much. The wind feels slightly off since it keeps blowing north. As I’m writing this, I’m walking across the desire lines of a grassy hill. There must still be people visiting this island, though there’s no sign of anyone else, not even that nose fellow from an hour ago. A part of me hopes that no one else is visiting the island at this time.

Speaking of which, now’s as good a time as any to stop and take a sip of whiskey. I withdraw some from my bag and open the lid, only for the flask, along with its contents, to go flying forward.

Well, crap. There goes a tenner’s worth of hooch.

I don’t mourn the loss of it for long as I’m fixated on what the hell that flask is doing spinning in the air. My knife also flies out of its sheath and meets the same fate as the flask, twirling in suspension like they’re doing the tango with one another.

I stare, completely dumbfounded for a moment before I go off to investigate.

I keep a distance since there’s a chance that the knife could just slash me open if I try to retrieve it. Instead, I focus on what’s causing this disturbance in the first place. There are two stone heads of some sort that are partially buried in the soil, both of them facing one another. They have no eyes, only niches carved into the rock that suggest some sort of skull shape. Moss has overtaken their bodies, making them blend in with the rest of the grassy clearing. In other words, they’re Nosepass.

Save for the mini-nose I saw earlier, I’ve never seen one in person before, only on the radio in some of the news features. I remember one story about a Nosepass guide on Mt. Coronet that helped tourists find their way to the peak. I hope they got paid for that job, though I don’t know what a Pokemon would need money for. In any case, it doesn’t take a genius to figure out the reason for my belongings getting stuck like that.

It also dawns on me that these Nosepass might wake up at any moment. What would they do if some random asshole suddenly disturbed their beauty sleep? I don’t want my tombstone to read: ‘Pummelled to death by a pissed-off rock sculpture.’ Though who’s to say I’ll have a tombstone?

So I tread carefully, watching where I step and what I step on. There are more of those buried Nosepass, some facing different directions from one another, some on their own, lying down as if they’re basking in the sky's light. There’s even one Nosepass couple sitting together with their backs touching. That’s a pretty image if I’ve ever seen one, though just like the others, they’re immobile and covered with flora.

Must be a pretty lonely existence, not being able to face your own kind without repelling one another. Then again, I don’t think they’d be able to kiss without their noses getting in the way.

After traversing my way through the clearing, I stop to snack on a sausage. They’re rather salty and have that processed, plasticky aftertaste since they're the ready-to-eat ones, but they get the job done. I don’t feel like lighting a fire, so I eat them cold. Besides, I don’t wish to have a fancy meal before I go anyway.

That little floating schnozz comes back and eyes what I’m eating. It stares as I take another bite out of my lunch. Aaaaaaaaaaaaand it’s still staring.

“What?” I say, no duh. “You want some? Do you guys even eat this stuff?”

The nose shakes from side to side, which I take as a ‘no’. So it can understand what I’m saying.

“Huh.” Either I’m going crazy or I’m really talking to a sentient rock. Sentient or sapient? The meaning of those two words has always escaped me. “I’ve just heard that certain Nosepass hunt for prey, so…”

It shakes its head again and jumps up and down on a nearby rock.

“So that’s your diet, eh? I don’t want to know what the inside of your toilet looks like.”

I chuckle at that little joke I made, though it doesn’t seem to react to the jib with any enthusiasm. Tough crowd.

“So… you’re part of the Probopass, right?”

It bobs up and down, nodding.

“You must be somewhere on the island, then. What’s with all these other Nosepass? I’d say they’re asleep, but, er, it looks like they’ve been there for a long time.”

It nods, a bit slower this time. I cotton onto its tone there.

“Must get awful lonely here, then. I know what that feels like.”

It doesn’t respond to that. I catch myself about to say something ridiculous. I’m getting invested in a floating rock, either out of genuine sympathy or simple curiosity. Maybe it’s those old journo instincts kicking in again. Still, I want to know what’s up with this island in general, so I stand up and gather my belongings, saving the sausage for later.

“I don’t wanna pry, but can you let me follow your nose for a bit? You know what they say: the nose always knows, after all.”

It stares for a moment longer, then floats off at a slow enough pace that I can follow. It guides me through trees, rocks, and other resting Nosepass. A bitter wind starts to blow through the forest. The trees rustle. Leaves dance in the air. The floating rock has some difficulty keeping itself upright with the sudden gusts, but it manages to adjust itself to continue its journey.

The terrain gets rockier as we go deeper into the island's centre. The peak looms above me like a jagged monument, standing taller than any other tree on this rock. The wind whistles through the forest, each tree acting as nature's flute. Then drops of rain splatter on my—

***

That was a close one. Thank the white god for this bag, otherwise this notebook would've been drenched.

We found refuge in a mountain cave where I'm finally face to face with this island's host: the Probopass. This pal's snout is even bigger than all the Nosepass', and wow, he’s in serious need of a nose trimmer. The oddest features, however, are his big, blue, glassy eyes. I’m unaware of the biology of an animate rock, since it could make sense for all I know, but eyeing him up close is a baffling experience to say the least. Seeing a Probopass in pictures doesn't compare to the real thing.

Oh yeah, for now, I’ll call him Noseboy. I don’t know his gender for sure, but he strikes me as more of a ‘he’ anyway.

"Good call, by the way, getting us out of the rain.”

Although the nose fuzz seems to cover his mouth, Noseboy smiles through his eyes as one mini-nose rubs his giant red hat-looking-thingy. Sorry, I'm not some wordsmith -- I just call it like I see it. One other mini-nose nudges my notebook with the bridge of its, well, take a guess.

"What do you want out of this book, big fella? I don't really have much in here, 'cept..."

I remember the sketches I made in the earlier pages. I'm no artist -- I'm just a dilettante at best, though somehow, in the past, I got a gig drawing courtroom sketches. Don’t ask me how. But anyway, I turn the pages and hold it out to Noseboy. I show him one drawing of people passing a random street, which he takes great interest in. He stares at the random Pokemon in particular -- he’s probably never seen anything like it from the outside world before.

Y’know, moments like this are probably why I still draw even though I’ve stopped doing it for the money. Back then, whatever friends I had, they really liked my doodles, and it was great to see them smiling about it. Look at me, getting nostalgic, even though I know it won’t last.

The mini-nose nudges it again, drawing me—pardon the pun—out of my stupor.

"What's got you so interested in my doodles anyway?"

I wait for a response, though it doesn't seem like he knows how to answer. Right, he can't speak. I'll just stick with yes/no questions from now on. At least, that's what I tell myself until one mini-nose hovers independently and starts rubbing the tip of its nose on the cave walls. Huh, Noseboy actually made a dent in the rocks. He only drew a stick figure, but at least that tells me he has some other method of communication. Another mini-nose points to the figure while the other one points to my notebook.

"I'm not sure I follow.”

Noseboy leers at me, smacking his face with a mini-nose. Then he draws another cave with an arrow pointing towards it as well as a trail of paw prints. Wait, I don’t have paws. Oh, never mind, footsteps, paw prints, same difference. It’s here that I understand his request.

“You want me to follow you somewhere else?”

He nods. The rain’s still pitter-pattering outside. Thunder rumbles. I’m not exactly tempted to go on a grand journey right now in the middle of a storm. Curiosity gnaws at me, like it always does, but an invisible thread pulls me back.

I don’t know Noseboy all that well, and there’s that lingering feeling of dread for what he’ll do to me if I accept his request. It’s not rational. I know it isn’t. A part of me also knows that I’m looking for any excuse to dip out at this point.

There’s a reason I came to this island in the first place. I came here to be alone. I didn’t want to bury my nose into anyone else’s business, as nobody’s been interested in mine in a long time, not that I can ever tell it to another living soul. I guess that’s the folly of being a journalist: disappearing into other people’s stories so you can forget your own.

Sorry, I’m not in the best state right now. So excuse me for a moment.

***

I'm sitting in a tent, which shields me from the onslaught of the storm. The rain pelts my tarp from all directions, and I suspect that the wind will uproot this blasted thing and blow me away with how much the roof is flapping. Not that I care. The only thing warming me up is this lit candle.

So… I ended up abandoning Noseboy. Without words, he insisted that I come with him, or at least stay in the cave to shelter myself from the rain, but I didn’t want to be there any longer. It’s uncomfortable, talking to a rock and staring at his big blue eyes. I just saw myself in their reflection and I didn’t like it at all. So I told him to stay away from me.

He seemed hurt, and in that moment of hurt, the looks of all of those I had let down in the past rushed back to me. It loops back to why I came here. I’ve been skirting around the issue for a while, and even here, at my most vulnerable, I don’t want to admit my plans. Even now, I can’t bring myself to organise my thoughts, so I’ll just run through them randomly.

After spending so long in the gaol, my life’s purpose after that was to travel. I saw a lot of things. A lot of islands, museums, tourist traps, etc. All of them blur into one another in retrospect, even with all the journaling I did, but at least then, I learned how to live again.

I don't live for moments like these, however, where I'm alone with my own thoughts. It gets to you. Seeps through your skin. Comes to you while you're asleep and slits your belly open in the hopes of throwing your entrails all over the room. Not even the heavy rain can drown out my thoughts. Travelling is only a distraction, and in the end, I’m ultimately still alone.

Damn. If I had my whiskey, that would keep me warm, or at least, it would fool me into thinking I’m warmer than I actually am.

It's been a long time since I've seen anyone close to me. Whoever I was with long ago, she left when I went to prison. She was pregnant too, though I haven't seen her kid either, whatever he or she looks like. My brothers, well, they never gave a Rattata's dick about me anyway, not that I ever gave them much reason to. All I did was beg them for money once I got out and used that money to travel. I don’t even know if I feel bad about that part. The rest, though...

I still won't tell you what I did. And by you, I really mean myself. The 'you' I'm talking to is the better version of me, or perhaps someone that would actually want to listen to my story. I haven't found either.

Perhaps that's all Noseboy wants: to tell his story. This island is full of ‘em. A part of me still wants to go and investigate, but after what happened so long ago, I don’t have it in me to do his story justice. I still haven't got the gist of what went down here, if something awful did happen, but that won’t matter any more.

Anyways, I'm rambling. I know what I want to do now. This will be my last entry. I don’t have a fancy eulogy for it. I'm not in the mood for waxing lyrical in a fucking book no one else will read. But just in case someone stumbles across this journal, whoever you are, don’t look for me. I’ll be food for the Wingull by the time you read this.

Dedicated to that one stray Poochyena I found as a pimple-faced teen. I hardly knew you, but you were the last friend that ever stuck with me to the bitter end. You know what they say: the more I know men, the more I like dogs.

***

No wait, scratch that. The last part of this journal looks ridiculous now.

I’m shivering, like I’d just dipped my whole body in a sub-zero ice bath. Even as I’m noting this down, my handwriting’s all shaky, but I need something to organise my thoughts.

Noseboy is with me right now. Just before I went off to try and, y’know, do the deed, he found me. I was pure adrenaline then and felt unshakeable in my conviction. I told him off for following me. But then he went ahead and stood by the edge of the cliff with me, staring at the ocean. He just stood there, staying by my side. At that moment, I sensed that Noseboy understood. Like he knew what I was going through. And then, I just… cried.

When was the last time that happened? Perhaps after I fell off of my bike and skinned my knee as a tot. Or when I saw the pooch had, no, that doesn’t matter. But everything I ever did and was about to do in that moment all rushed back to me. What if I jumped and regretted it before I hit the ground? One thing led to another, all the energy got zapped from my body, and those mini-noses of his carried me back to some shelter.

In any case, he strikes up both of his mini-noses over some firewood, setting it alight. It brings warmth into the cave, something my body sorely needs.

I need to stop writing for now while the fire warms up my cold, tired bones. Oh, and I should get some food in me. Luckily, I have some sausages left over. Hopefully, I don’t vomit it back up.

***

I still feel like garbage, even after coming down from that episode. It’ll probably linger for a while. At least I’ve got something in my gut and can stand up now. Noseboy escorts me to wherever he wants to take me. I doubt it’s anything sinister, but if you find this journal and a pair of old leather boots lying around, well, I don’t care what you do with ‘em to be honest. Lost my train of thought there.

We hit a dead end, and thankfully, what’s awaiting me isn’t a sacrificial altar, but a huge wall with lots of cave drawings. It’s a wide tapestry of rock etchings, some of which look recent judging by the fresh marks on the right, probably Noseboy’s doing. The faded markings on the leftmost side, however, look like they’ve been there for ages, giving the whole thing a primordial atmosphere. It’s honestly a work of art.

Elsewhere, Noseboy looks back at me, only to point a mini-nose at a tally chart to strike up a new line out of eleven. Huh, so he can add up numbers as well. Finally, he gestures over to me and points to the beginning of the mural.

“So, this is what you want to show me. What do you want me to do here?”

He taps my book with a mini-nose, and I take the hint. I don’t know if it’s the sign of a fever, but heat rises to my head. “Y’know, it’s been a while since I’ve done this for someone else.”

He leaves me to it, and for now, I focus on copying what’s on the wall.

***

Faded lines and circles make up several human shapes. Their twig-like arms wrap around a solid form, like a rock. A big circle makes up the sun above them.

There’s a copy of the same picture on the right, except dots and circles have been poked into the sun, making up craters and peaks to turn it into a moon. The humans have been scratched out.

The next section of the wall has no humans at all, and this is where the markings look fresher. More of those rocks have taken their place, some small, some big with hat-shaped carvings atop their heads. Their craggy arms reach up to the sky, and their carved eyes seem to reflect joy.

The solid shapes are standing in a line atop the mountain, spaced out and facing opposite directions from one another. The ones bearing the hats are the only figures holding hands with one another.

Next wall. The smaller rocks are crying jagged-looking tears. They are still facing opposite directions, like the couple I saw at the enclave. The only company they have are the smaller floating rocks and the hat-bearing titans. Some stop crying, while most of the others persist. The ratio of those satisfied with the island vs. those that aren't is roughly 1:4.

The next wall depicts an ocean, suggested by one wavy line with a crude fish shape in it. The crying rocks make up four silhouettes positioned below the wavy line, suggesting that they're walking across the ocean floor. The last rock left on the island stays.

On the last wall, lots of vine-like lines rise up from the ground and cover up the last rock. There is a crudely-drawn smiley face above it.

***

I go through these entries one by one with Noseboy. I might as well mention that I’ve left the descriptions of the notes vague as I’m unsure of how to interpret it exactly. I explain this to Noseboy, but one of the mini-noses nudges my face anyway.

"Okay, okay. I guess you want me to make up some kind of story from what you drew."

He nods.

"Alright. Well, I dunno how much everyone else knows about what happened here. If I'm the only sucker who got roped into this, I'll be surprised."

The nose nudges me again.

"Okay, okay, I'm on it." I take a bigger bite this time. "So, these guys built you... I think? These stick figures here might’ve been a tribe, I dunno. That's what I reckon."

He shrugs.

"I guess you don't have any way of knowing if you only became animate after they went away. Or they died. I dunno. It beats me why they'd make rock statues like that, unless they tried to make them in each other’s image, somehow."

Another shrug. I try to sort through the rest as it seems rather self-explanatory. The more I think about it though, the more it starts to get under my skin, just like the cold rain outside.

"You seemed all alone. Like you wanted to talk to one another, but couldn't, if that whole 'Nosepass can't face each other' thing is true."

He nods that time. So I struck gold there.

"That'd get on anyone's nerves, human or Pokemon." I sigh, remembering a time when I used to be in the isolation cell for about a week. All I heard was the clock ticking. Shouts echoing through the walls. My own heartbeat. The unquiet of my own thoughts. "And one day, they couldn't take it any more. So the Nosepass left. And there are quite a lot of Nosepass here already, so imagine how many Nosepass made it off the island and are now on the mainland."

Noseboy's eyes droop.

"So everyone else here decided they were happy and just... rested, I guess.”

It’s a lot to take in, and I don’t really know how to feel about the whole affair. There’s a bittersweet feeling to the whole thing, but then there’s another feeling of discovery. I made plenty of discoveries back in the day, one of which ruined my life. But this is probably the biggest discovery I’ve made, observing the fringes of an ancient civilization. And this is only one part of a bigger story, since the Nosepass that left are still alive, some with trainers, some roaming around the world, and some that just decided to settle into society, either in a group of their own or with humans.

Noseboy interrupts me with another mini-nose tap. Then he points towards me, with the other mini-nose drawing a mouth on the wall.

"Aw, I don't think you wanna hear me rag on about my crappy life all night."

He nods regardless and sits in front of me like a kid waiting for a bedtime story. Well, there ain’t no bedtime stories here. Just the story of a man rolling a boulder up a hill only to be crushed as the whole thing runs him over.

Still, he wants me to talk about what happened. For the first time in a while, I’m actually smiling. I’m writing this in such a long-winded way because again, I don't remember the last time I truly felt what my face expressed. But I won't ramble into this notebook any longer. I will tell my story, and I will unearth what has plagued me for so long, but it won't be for your eyes and ears, or nose in this case. I fear that if anyone discovers what happened, they might imprison me again.

I will say for now though, if you’re working in the journalism industry, screw ethics and the truth. They’ll only get you so far, and they got me so far off of the deep end that it ruined me forever. Just goes to show what you get for trying to unearth someone’s dark past.

***

A cold sweat trickles down my body. Noseboy is no longer here.

After spending so long talking to him last night, it feels surreal to not face that bright, red snout. I power-walk out of the cave, trying not to overexert this old, tired body of mine. I see no sign of Noseboy on my journey. I retrace my steps through the muddy tracks, walking and stopping to catch my breath, walking and stopping, walk, stop, rinse, repeat.

I reach the clearing I had crossed just a day ago. One new figure has joined the mossy, crumbling gathering of Nosepass.

I turn to stone and join him too.

***

Sorry, I had to flex my literary muscles there. It was all a dream, as they say. I know I’m a hack, but at least I’m aware of it. But no, Noseboy is right here with me still. He was watching over me the whole time I slept. It’s a comforting thought after the nightmare I had.

That was an actual dream by the way. I’m still kind of anxious about it. So I express what I dreamt to Noseboy, exactly as I had noted it down, and he waddles towards me. He—

He just hugged me. Well, the closest thing a Probopass can get to hugging someone is wrapping their mini-noses around them. Still, it has the desired effect. I feel better, better than I did waking up from the nightmare, and better than I did yesterday.

“Thanks.” I sigh. “Sorry you had to see me in that…” I would say ‘state’, but I struggle to get the next words out. “But I really appreciate you sittin’ down to listen to me prattle on about my baggage. Strange. You can’t even speak and you’re a better listener than most assholes I’ve met.”

He smiles with his eyes.

“Though most of what I said must sound like utter bollocks to you, I reckon. Talking about things like embargoes, whistleblowing and all that.”

He shakes his head. It’s probably for the best that he doesn’t know.

A part of me wants to stay here, but I need to distance myself from what happened. I no longer want to rot away on this island, even if that feeling, that bottomless pit inside me, hasn’t completely gone away. For now, I want to be somewhere else, or at least ponder what to do next alone while I sail on my boat.

My boat.

Oh, right, I didn’t tie it to the rock.

Damn it.

***

The dinghy’s not there. The one thing tethering me to the outside world and it left me behind. It’s probably deep in the drink by now, and if it has kept itself afloat by some miracle, I certainly can’t see where it is.

Noseboy is as shocked as I am.

“So… I guess I’m stuck on this island. Can’t be too bad if I’m with you, right?” I laugh, and laugh, and laugh. And laugh.

***

Sorry, I needed to gather myself for a moment. Noseboy made sure to calm me down. Good ol’ Noseboy. I’m only writing now because I need something to keep myself sane. Can’t really think if I’m catastrophising like this. What would past-me say?

Okay. So, if I do choose to live on this island, what can I eat other than sausages? I’m sure I can improvise. The knife could be useful for cutting up things. Maybe if I fetch it from the two Nosepass… Gotta watch out for that magnetism though.

Wait, magnetism. The dinghy’s made out of metal. So there has to be a way for Noseboy to get it to shore, right? Even if he can’t, it’s worth a shot.

I ask him and describe what the dinghy looks like: a long chunk of steel with a pure silver finish and a motor at the back. I hope the thing’s still got gas in it. He understands, and his mini-noses start scouting the ocean. Those things can go quite far, so far that it disappears into the distance. Either that or it’s gone underwater. But I watch with bated breath, holding onto this notebook like a safety blanket.

It doesn’t seem to take a toll on Noseboy. I also wonder if he’s had to pull boats out before, or other metallic things from the ocean. So I ask him about that as well and he nods too. So that gives me hope. Well, more hope even though I have plenty of it to spare after this.

It’s not like me to get sentimental. I’ll probably never see the fuzzy guy again after this if our plan works out. But two thoughts gnaw at my mind: the possibility that I would make another attempt again, as well as the thought of Noseboy being stuck here on his own.

He’s probably been here for time immemorial. Imagine being cut off from any sort of contact for days, weeks, months, years, possibly even aeons. No human would want to live that long. I know I wouldn’t.

“I’m just thinking. You stayed here for ages. Yet the others didn’t, and the ones that did, well… Anyone would go crazy staying on an island for so long. So, did you ever think about, you know…”

I make a neck-slashing gesture, and he nods in reply.

“You did?”

He nods again.

"Why? I..." Dammit, why is it starting to get to me? I can’t choke up again. But it hurts that someone I know shares my pain. "Sorry if it's a front loaded question, but well, I've lived all this time. God, I can’t even off myself the old fashioned way, but I know I don’t want to live much longer. So, why stay?"

He points to me, except he doesn’t literally mean me. I suppose he means that he stays for anyone like me who visits the island, and that he’ll tell his story to anyone willing to listen. I imagine quite a few people have visited before if that tally chart’s of any indication, so I'm probably not a unique case. It doesn't lessen the impact of the story he told me, after all. It fills my heart with a warmth I haven't felt in a while.

I want to hug him, though I keep my hands to myself, to this notebook. So I settle for a thumbs up, and he tries to give one back. He has no hands, but at least the nose, when pointed upwards, sort of looks like a thumb.

I know what I want to do now. If I leave this island, when I leave this island and get back to the mainland, I want to start telling stories again. I want to talk about Noseboy, but I also want to discover new stories as well. Stories worth telling. And it’s probably been so long since all of that trouble ages ago that I can start telling my own story. And if the truth’s still sealed behind all that red tape, then I want to find the scissors to cut it all to ribbons.

The boat pops out of the surface, at last. And so I leave, still with no destination or map, but with a repaired compass in my head pointing true north.


End file.
